Orbiters

Therapy

I always imagine librarians are happy. It’s books all the time. What a great job!

Then I spent a week moving my own books to new shelves, placing each in order. About half way through something happened. It was just books books books. Why are there so many? I wailed.

When I finally finished I never wanted to see another book. I still smile and wave at librarians. But I’m taking it down a notch. For readers a book is a window into a whole world. For librarians it’s just a… book.

Every ship in Space Corps has a full-time, degreed, licensed, trained and able psychologist. They are kept busy. For crew members, where duty is first and last, no one is allowed to express their innermost feelings. Except in therapy. Like all psychologists, Space Corps shrinks are essentially worthless. But you could tell them what you thought.

“Your mother,” said Dr. Jellicek.

“What?” Kenneth Kern lay on a leather couch. “What about her?”

“I want to know how you feel about your mother.”

“She was wonderful.”

“Ah!” the doctor wrote in his notebook.

Kern looked at him sideways. “Is that bad?”

“Depends.” Dr. Jellicek wore a white coat. His glasses were round and thick, with black frames. As he questioned patients he pushed his glasses higher, or pulled them lower, back and forth, as though bringing a microscope specimen into focus. You are the specimen. “Tell me about your romantic relationships. Do these, and I want to be careful, remind you of your mother?”

“Absolutely not! I mean, if I had romantic relationships. Which I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

“It’s against regulations.”

“Ah!” The doctor wrote in his book.

Kern was getting annoyed. “Listen, Doc. I’m here because I work with idiots. They’re driving me crazy, and I doubt they’ll ever change. Can’t you just give me a Moon pill?”

“We don’t like medication. Not if it can be avoided.” Moon pills were nothing more than sugar tablets. These operated on the power of suggestion. A bottle worked wonders. “Let us return to your romantic life. Do you wish you were married?”

Kern did not, and said so. First, his work would mean a lengthy separation from his wife. It might be years before he returned home. They would have to get to know each other all over again, meaning courtship, and flowers, and all that rigmarole. Then Kern’s wife, or any wife he imagined for himself, would be highly analytical. She would want to know all the details. Had he really missed her that much? Why hadn’t he emailed more? What about all those pretty officers? And why was he always talking about Ensign Bremer? What was it about her, anyway? “You understand my reservations, don’t you, Doctor?” Kern glanced up. “Doctor?”

Dr. Jellicek seemed lost in thought.

Kern noticed his ring. “You’re a married man yourself, am I right?”

“Why, yes. I am.”

“Anyway, Doctor. As I was saying...”

“My goodness,” the doctor said. “Look at the time.” He jumped up and all but threw Commander Kern out of his office. “I must prepare for my next patient. If you need to see me again, make an appointment.”

Kern thought not, but kept this to himself. He left.

As for the doctor, he was most distressed. He shook out a handful of Moon pills, downing them in a gulp. Then sat at his computer. He had letters to write home. A lot of them.